


King's Crown

by Doot



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry, inFAMOUS: Second Son
Genre: How Do I Tag, I Am New To This, I Don't Even Know, Mild Gore, help me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5194958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doot/pseuds/Doot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes your roommate says the wrong thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King's Crown

Nails clawing, teeth biting, fingers tearing, and he couldn't seem to find purchase against his skin and god _damn_ did he wish he could. None of it would give way to his hands as they aggressively tore and scratched his flesh. None of it would split and pull away from him. He wished it would. Fuck, he wished it would. He couldn't get over what had happened moments before and what he had done to the one person that gave a shit about him.  
  
He should've known what he was and he should've known this would happen and he should've known he couldn't stay in one place for so long, but he did. He took what was offered for granted and tore at it mercilessly with fangs he never thought he had.

He tried to make excuses for what had happened, but none came to him. He's a killer. He did this for no reason in particular. No excuses he had partially fabricated could cover the damage he's done. He's a monster.

_You're fine. It was bound to happen. He should've known. He didn't stop you from before. But now you're free. Now **I'm** free of **you**._

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Choked sobs escaped his throat. "Delsin, I'm sorry..." Not a sound. Not a single noise greeted him in response. He did this to himself. He gave in, let that grotesque beast stuffed so far down in himself he nearly forgot take control. That’s what he gets, it seems. He should have known. Should have anticipated this. He spent too much time here, too much time feeding off of Delsin’s gratitude like a rabid beast to ever want to stop. It was desire, his own greed that that became so incredibly strong he couldn’t hold back any longer. He wanted more than what Delsin had to offer. He wanted all of it. Every last scrap of him all to himself. How disgustingly selfish. How horrifically nauseating this heinous act was.

The weight of the action finally began to sink him. Further down he went, both mind and body. The carpet beneath him let out an awful _squish_ as the full weight of his form pressed into it. Blood weaved it’s way through the material, slowly staining it with each passing second.

He found no solace, no comfort so close to that bloody heap of flesh that, at one point, was a conduit. No warmth, other than the sticky red slowly coddling his figure, greeted him. It was cold, so cold despite the heat still ebbing off his body.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. They were supposed to be happy, he was getting better. He was getting closer and closer to that silence he’s longed for. Now, all there was in the flat was silence. He had to kill for it, was it worth dirtying his hands? The cost was higher than he wanted. If he knew it would end this way, he never would have come to Delsin in the first place. He never would have stayed in Seattle after what happened in the alley and he never would have asked for help when he was pushed out of the window. He should have died so many times and should have ended himself so many times, but why didn’t he? What was he so afraid of? There’s nothing in Hell that can scare him, and he has nothing left to lose.

Part of him wished his heart would stop. Would he be granted such mercy after killing someone so close? What was he to do?

_Let me out._

He’s lost. He can’t stay here anymore. There’s no kindness left.

_Let me out._

What was left here for him? Delsin is gone, their joy is gone, whatever scrap of normalcy left was viciously torn apart.

_Let me out._

He slipped away again, pushed himself in the back of his mind. Happy memories, one of his childhood with Eva or when he found Vergil. When he was with Delsin, the first time they created the connection. He was curled up on the floor, still laying in that pool of crimson. His fingers dug into his scalp, clumps of his own hair coming out with each cut and tear. His eyes were screwed shut, as if shutting them would hide the grizzly image only a few feet away from him. His body shuddered, a chill sliding down the center of his back. Something dripped from his nose.

Dante stood and wiped the blood off his cheek with the back of his wrist. A smile crept across his face once he looked down at the mess. Pieces discarded carelessly. What made him believe it was neatly piled escaped him now. This was far from neat.

Ignore the blood so graciously splattered on the wall and ignore the burn marks in the carpet and on the furniture. He got messy. He tried to defend himself. He couldn't handle you. You're too much for him and he should've known.  
  
Now he knows. Now he sees. Now he understands. Now you're free.

The nephilim took a few steps over to what remained of the delinquent and leaned down, pulling up that signature burgundy beanie. Slipping it onto his own head, tucking his ears beneath it, then tried to find the usual throne for such a glorious cloth king.

_Ah, there you are._

His knees against the carpet forced an almost labored squelch from all the liquid trapped inside. Reaching over the mangled corpse and over to a blood-soaked clump of brown hair, there was his trophy. He cupped the cheeks of his old roommate and looked into those dim brown eyes.

_What a pity, he’s already cold._

He pressed his lips against the conduit’s, almost wishing he had waited to commit this crime so the contact was more enjoyable. Moments passed, then he cut off the connection. He still held onto the hair stuck in place and slowly swung it around as if it were a toy. He found his jacket and gloves, then simply tossed the extremity back to the mess left on the floor.

There was nothing left for him here. No kindness nor heat. The smell of metal was overwhelming and he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled the door to the flat open, sliding both keys into his pocket, then leaving. What else was there that he needed? _Nothing_.

“Later, Smoke.”

 

 


End file.
